


who needs enemies?

by steelplatedhearts



Series: War Paint and Cyanide Pills [2]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Post-Movie, these two are actually seriously messed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shosanna and Silva are friends, technically. But their definition of 'friend' is so vastly different from the dictionary definition that, to the casual observer, they might seem like enemies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who needs enemies?

“ _Vous êtes un cochon stupide et j'espère que vous pourrir en enfer_ ,” Shosanna hisses the moment Silva steps into view of her cell.

“Well, well, well,” he says, tsk-ing at her. “Someone’s been very bad.”

“J'ai _eu beaucoup de mal?_ Vous _avez été très mauvais! Tu m'as arrêté_!” she shouts.

“Now, now, darling,” he says, as if he’s talking to a child. “English, remember?”

She slams her hand against the bars. “You got me arrested, you unmitigated asshole!”

“You don’t like your new accommodations?” he asks innocently. “It seems quite nice, as far as jail cells go.” She tries to hit him through the bars at that, but he just takes a calm step back and stares at her outstretched hand. “Hmm. Not very friendly today, are we?”

She stops reaching, slumps against the bars, but continues to glare at him. “I would ask if you were insane, but I think that question answers itself.”

“Would you like me to let you out?” he asks, smirking at her.

“Yes,” she grumbles.

“What do you say?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” she spits, snarling at him.

He considers for a moment. “No.”

“You let me out right now!” Shosanna shrieks, rattling the door.

“You want to be let out?” Silva asks, suddenly intense, all mirth gone. He reaches through the bars and grabs Shosanna’s shoulder, dragging her closer. “Don’t ever mention Her in that manner again, do you hear me?”

“What, mommy issues hitting too close to home?” she asks mockingly. “Poor little Raoul, mama never loved him.”

His face twists into a scowl, and he shoves her roughly away. She smacks into the wall and stumbles, but she doesn’t fall.

“You can stay here and _rot_!” he sneers, and he turns on his heel to leave.

“And you can go to hell!” she yells at his back.

Two days later, he strolls in and lets her out. “I could kill for a decent cup of coffee,” she says, brushing past him.

“There’s a nice little café that I’m rather fond of in Milan,” he says. “Would you like to make the trip?”

“I suppose I can hold out until we get there,” she says.

Neither of them mentions anything from their fight two days previous.

*   *   *   *   *

The thing is, Shosanna is the closest thing that Silva has to a friend, and vice versa. This is in itself a depressing thought, because neither of them really knows how to _be_ a friend.

They’re fairly terrible to each other, all things considered. They are nasty, and don’t know how to be anything _but_ nasty, and they spend so much time in the same place that they know exactly how to piss each other off.

But Shosanna hasn’t yet irritated Silva so badly that he’s actually contemplated killing her, and she still views him as an annoyance rather than an actual threat, so they manage.

That doesn’t mean that they won’t get revenge on each other from time to time.

*   *   *   *   *

One thing she really, _really_ doesn’t like is when he draws attention to them.

Drawing attention to himself is quite possibly his favorite thing to do.

Needless to say, it’s their biggest source of contention.

*   *   *   *   *

About a week before Shosanna is arrested, Silva comes back to the motel room after a bagel run and finds her sitting on her bed watching TV, arms crossed and lips pressed together.

“Bagels, _ratita_ ,” he says, rummaging through the bag for his own bagel. “They were out of strawberry cream cheese, so I just went with plain.”

“Are you stupid, Raoul?” she ask, tone conversational. “Or do you just hate me?”

“Hate you? Never,” he says, taking a bite of his bagel.

“Then why do you continually insist on doing things like _this_?” she asks, waving a hand in the direction of the TV. “The only reason I can come up with is that you hate me.”

He sits down next to her, handing her the bagel, and munches on his own as he watches the news report—the lead story that’s pissed Shosanna off so badly is about the security systems of the Bank of England all mysteriously failing at once.

“You didn’t even _take any money_ ,” she says, ripping a piece of her bagel off with more force than necessary. “What, may I ask, was the _point_?”

“What makes you think it was me?” he asks her.

She just gives him a frosty look. “Who else would it be?”

“There wasn’t a point, really,” he says. “I was bored.”

“Huh! He was bored, he says.” She narrows her eyes at him. “You’re an asshole. You’re going to get us caught.”

“I love you too, _ratita_.”

“Don’t call me that.”

*   *   *   *   *

Shosanna cannot _seriously_ screw up Silva’s computer—his security systems are far too advanced, and he’s been trying to teach her some basic hacks but it’s slow going and they have to go find someone to murder afterwards (because _someone_ has to bear the brunt of their frustration).

So, one day when Silva’s out roaming the streets, she paints a bright-red bullseye on the front of his laptop and takes it out to use for target practice.

She might not be able to hack, but she can sure as fuck shoot.

She collects the pieces in a bag and dumps them on Silva’s pillow, and goes to bed (knife by her side, just in case).

She sleeps through the night and wakes up in the morning, and Silva says nothing about it, which is how she knows he is most likely planning something.

So she hides a few knives about her person and keeps her baseball bat close, just in case.

*   *   *   *   *

Silva buys himself a new laptop and spends the next few day’s worth of driving setting up new security systems and re-uploading all his files.

Then he hacks into the car’s radio and blasts “Call Me Maybe” at top volume.

Shosanna shrieks in the most undignified way he’s ever seen and swerves across two lanes of traffic, narrowly missing a truck.

 _“What the fuck are you doing?”_ she shouts, steering the car back into the proper lane. “You turn that the hell off right now!”

He smiles at her, conducting along to the music. “Don’t touch my computer.”

Her mouth drops open. “Oh, is that how you’re going to play it? Fine! That’s how we’ll play it!”

She drives the rest of the way to the motel in silence while Silva conducts the greatest pop hits of the 90’s. He can tell by the way her shoulders stiffen that she’s fuming.

Well. She shouldn’t have fucked with his computer.

*   *   *   *   *

She sets a small, harmless explosive (more of a noisemaker, really) to blow near a back tire and detonates it around noon.

“Damn, there goes the tire,” she says, slumping in her seat. “Can you fix it? There’s a jack in the trunk.”

He sighs and clicks his tongue at her, but gets out of the car and heads toward the back. The second the door swings shut behind him, she slams on the gas and speeds off.

He finds a slip of paper in his jacket pocket ten minutes later with a motel address and “Have a nice walk, asshole” scrawled on it in Shosanna’s spiky handwriting.

*   *   *   *   *

The next day, he sets a not-harmless-at-all explosive to blow near a back tire. When she gets out to change it, she discovers that Silva’s slashed the spare.

She lays down on the car roof and throws an arm over her eyes. Silva climbs up next to her and perches on the edge, basking in the sun.

“You know,” he says absently, “I always wondered what would happen if the last two rats chose to eat each other.”

Shosanna groans. “Will you quit it with the whole ‘rat’ thing, _connasse_?”

“Never, _ratita_ ,” he says, pinching her cheek.

*   *   *   *   *

Shosanna saves her retaliation for days later.

“Have I ever told you about my family?” she says while they’re watching TV in the most recent shitty motel room.

His eyes light up, but he plays it cool. “No,” he says, shrugging.

“I was just thinking about my mother today,” she sighs, staring at the TV screen. “Her name was Miriam.”

Silva says nothing, but is on high alert. Shosanna has never talked about her family before, so he’s going to milk this sentimental moment for all it’s worth.

“She looked like me,” Shosanna says softly, rolling a strand of blonde hair between her fingers. “She used to sing to my brother and I at night, and she was a terrible cook, and her solution when we were sad was to give us big glasses of milk.”

As Silva’s filing this information away for future reference, Shosanna’s eyes turn cold and she says, “She was a wonderful mother. Never sold me out to the Chinese. And she was my _actual mother_.”

Silva’s eyes narrow, and both of them are on their feet in the blink of an eye. “What did you say, you little bitch?” Silva hisses.

“You heard me,” Shosanna fires back. “My mother’s been dead since I was 16 and she’s _still_ better than M. And you know it’s true because I’m not obsessed with a dead woman—”

She barely ducks in time to avoid the knife thrown at her head. She scrambles to the head of her bed, grabs the baseball bat out from under the pillows, and swings, catching Silva in the ribs. That doesn’t buy her enough time, and he lands a good punch to her nose.

But it takes more than that to keep Shosanna down, so she pops right back up and smashes Silva’s head into the wall. “I’m going for a drink,” she hisses into his ear.

And then she’s gone, keys jingling as she disappears.

Silva narrows his eyes at the door. He straightens himself up, splashes some water on his face, and follows.

*   *   *   *   *

Shosanna does not need to worry about getting hit on today. She looks likes she’d kill you as soon as look at you, so the other occupants of the bar give her a wide berth.

But space is limited, so people end up sitting next to her at the bar anyway. Silva brushes past them, taking the wallet of the man sitting next to Shosanna and slipping it into her purse.

“Excuse me,” he says to the bartender once he’s out of Shosanna’s view. “I think that young lady just stole that man’s wallet.”

It’s appallingly simple, and Shosanna’s already in such a mood that she headbutts the first person to talk to her.

He waves at her as she’s being led to the police car.

*   *   *   *   *

When he finally breaks her out two days later, they mostly ignore the fight. They’re about to go to sleep when Silva says, “Let’s not fight again, _ratita_.”

“Sure,” Shosanna says dryly. “Like _that’s_ likely.”

There’s a moment of silence in the dark.

“Maybe we should fight more often,” Shosanna suggests. “I feel better, don’t you?”

“Trying to break your nose was the highlight of my week,” Silva says, and Shosanna can just _hear_ him smirking.

“Bet I can get _you_ arrested next time,” she says, and he laughs, the sound echoing through the room.

“Challenge accepted, _mi ratita_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the French, online translators are pretty much my only resource.


End file.
